Backstock
by Haleine Delail
Summary: Aziraphale is vexed to find that a new type of customer has been frequenting his book shop, and he doesn't know why. The customers act cagey, are tight-lipped, and none of them are interested in rare or antique volumes. The phenomenon changes the mood of his shop, and the angel is desperate to find out what's behind it! One-shot!


**This story is set maybe two weeks after the un-pocalypse, on that Saturday in "Good Omens." It's just a silly one-shot, entirely set in the book shop, and starring Aziraphale. **

**It alludes to an equally silly incident in episode 2. **

**Please pardon any stereotyping. In a one-shot like this, it can be useful shorthand.**

**Anyway, it's meant to make you laugh, so please enjoy!**

* * *

In over thirteen decades of owning a book shop, he had never seen this happen.

Numerous times over the years, children of an adolescent and/or preadolescent age had accompanied their parents into the shop. In the early days, it was always mothers with small children, holding hands, whispering. The children were well-behaved and patient (read: repressed and threatened). The last fifty years, it had been fathers and mothers both, accompanied by children of all ages, usually complaining that the shop carried no comic books, no magazines, no puzzle books, nor anything that came with a pack of bubblegum.

The last thirty years, it had often been fathers, mothers, and children who were tourists, since the area around the shop had become trendy and gentrified. This was both delightful and vexing, dependent upon their disposition, and frankly, often what country they were from. Though, children the world over could be surly or enthusiastic, or anything in-between – it was a toss of the dice.

A smattering of times, a teen had wandered in either by mistake, for directions, to use the loo, or to browse pretentiously amongst the rare tomes, as though there were anything there they could possibly fancy. The shop's owner usually found ways to discourage them from buying anything, even more aggressively than he discouraged everyone else.

But the vast majority of customers of A.Z. Fell and Co. Bookseller's shop were, and always had been, adults, alone, looking for something specific, esoteric, and expensive. Most of them had an air of education, wealth, or intelligence about them, sometimes all three, and almost none of them managed to talk the owner into selling them something.

However, today was the first time Aziraphale (part-time bookseller, full-time angel) had had a _group_ of teenagers enter the shop, unchaperoned. From his desk where he sat, he simply observed for a few minutes. He watched them come in, and whisper at each other, and then look about the shop in a bird-like fashion. He fancied that they were like a group of egrets in school uniforms, with their sudden movements, lanky bodies and a look of wide-eyed shock colouring their faces.

There were five of them, and Aziraphale guessed they were all around thirteen years old, of varying heights, and two of them had rather shaggy hairdos. One was wearing his school tie around his head, probably meant to invoke a martial-artsy air. In this, it failed.

They stood in a scrum for a moment, then split up into two groups of two, and one by himself. They all pretended to browse the books, and to be interested in what was in them - even ones written in ancient Aramaic. The pairs chitchatted in the most banal manner possible, whilst the lone kid seemed to skirt the outer edges of the shop, trying not to let anyone know that he was looking for something.

At first, the two other customers in the store had stared at them, but by now, had gone back to their own browsing.

The fivesome were cagey to be sure, but they were just kids. And if they were out to steal something, Aziraphale was not worried.

Exactly twenty-eight times in the past one-hundred-thirty years, someone had tried to shoplift from him, and Aziraphale had merely snapped his fingers and made the book re-appear in his own hands. Or, if he'd been in a particularly frisky mood, he'd snapped his fingers and made the book leap out of the thief's clutches, spin around in the air, and fly back through the front door. He then would enjoy watching the miscreant run screaming down the street.

However, with this group, he decided he should probably just stop them from beginning a life of crime in the first place.

He stood up and walked out into the main area of the shop. "Good afternoon. How may I help you fine young men?"

Without saying a word, the five of them all rushed toward the exit, and left nervously. Just before the door snapped shut, he heard one of them breathe the words, "Oh, shit!"

"Well, that was odd," he said to himself, before returning to his desk.

* * *

Two days later, a similar thing happened.

This time, it was three boys and one girl, and they were a bit older – sixteen, Aziraphale would have guessed. He was shelving in the Memoirs, 1600-1800, section, and he continued to do so, but watched them carefully.

Again, they had a bit of a confab near the door, before the girl broke away from the group and approached Aziraphale directly.

"Hello, young lady," he said, affably. "With what may I help you, on this lovely afternoon?"

"Hello, sir," she chirped. "I'm just wondering if, erm… _this_ is the only part of the store."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is there another _part_?"

"What, like an annex?"

"A back room or basement."

"Er… no, nothing like that. Not with merchandise for sale, anyway. Why would you ask?"

"Okay, thank you," she said, and she turned to her friends. When she reached the group of cowering boys, she hissed, "Told you!"

One of the boys hissed back, "Shut up!"

And they all left.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Aziraphale noticed lone teen boys wandering in, pretending to browse, but clearly looking for something, with increasing frequency. Or, sometimes they came in pairs. Sometimes they spoke to him, sometimes not. Sometimes they made grunting noises in lieu of language. If they did speak, they usually asked about _another part_ of the store, or asked if they could look _in there_, pointing to an archway that led to where Aziraphale kept his private ledgers and whatnot. He would tell them, in as fatherly a way as he could, that that was not possible, and that they should really run along.

He also noticed a type of person frequenting the store who had not done so before. Multiple types of people, in fact. They were sorts of people who did not have the appearance of belonging in a rare and antique books shop – they were quite clearly not collectors, nor did they seem moneyed, nor the research-inclined sort. Ninety-five per cent (give or take) were men. These were individuals in torn jeans and t-shirts with baseball caps, who walked with a lazy gait. These were men in low-slung trousers, oversized tartan-printed jackets, and three-hundred-pound basketball shoes. These were guys in linen capris and leather flip-flops, constantly brushing hair out of their eyes.

Aziraphale generally did not have a problem with any particular _sort_ of human, and never with individuals, on principle, unless they had been shown to have done something mean-spirited. Even then, it was literally _in his nature _to forgive. He did not judge intelligence nor status nor worth based on appearance – it was also literally in his nature to see the soul of a sentient being, before considering anything exterior. But after over a century of running this shop, he recognised a certain genre of individual, who was earnestly interested in his stock.

These guys weren't it.

He would always ask what he could do to help them. That is, if they allowed him to get near them. They would answer in three ways: 1) no thanks, just browsing (while glancing about, clearly for something specific), 2) just like the kids, what other parts of the store are there? 3) I'm looking for your _backstock_, wink wink, nudge nudge.

Aziraphale was flummoxed, and after the tenth day in a row of _several_ experiences of this sort, it had become more than a bit tiresome. His book shop had long been a pleasure to him – his home, in fact. It was a place of calm and familiarity, where he could meet people who were somewhat like himself, talk with people about history, literature, and the like. He could shelve books and/or read at his leisure, and mostly trust that the clientele were simply browsing (without feeling too, too welcome).

Now, he felt as though he couldn't take his attention away, because the _fabric_ of the clientele had been changing. A different sort of vibe was pervading the book shop now, and he had no idea why. It was vexing, to say the least. Even his best friend in the universe, who was _very_ savvy as to the weird, dodgy ways of the human animal, had no idea what to make of it. Of course, Aziraphale suspected that he hadn't really been listening, but had, in fact, been in a hurry to pursue other interests at that moment…

He found that his companion was the only thing that could take his mind off it, even if he offered no actual _help_. So, Aziraphale closed the shop for four days, and the two of them took a distracting short holiday in Guernsey.

* * *

He decided to re-open the shop on a Monday, hoping that whatever had been going on would have gone away. He knew this was daft, of course, but he didn't know what else to do. This was _his_ safe-haven, and he couldn't run from it…

But within an hour of opening, he saw the phenomenon reoccurring. With tedium, he spoke to each of the mysterious patrons, and listened to them say one of the three standard lines. He even entertained himself slightly, trying to guess which excuse each of them would give. On a couple of occasions, he tried pressing further, to ask what _exactly_ they were after, but it hadn't worked. The new customers were tight-lipped and secretive.

At five minutes past three p.m. on that Monday, just before Aziraphale was about to turn the sign to _closed,_ a well-to-do-looking man in a striking blue suit came in. He was tall, muscular, cleanly handsome, and genial.

"Hello there," he said.

"Good afternoon, sir," Aziraphale responded, thanking Somebody that this gent seemed to be one of the antique-book-shopping ilk. "What can I do for you?"

The man smiled. "You're the owner?"

"Yes, I am."

The man put his hands in his pockets and said, "I've seen you about. I work in the neighbourhood."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I'm in real estate."

"I see. Well, good sir, I'm afraid I'm not looking to sell."

"No, no, that's not what I'm here for," said the man. "Anyway, my business mostly comes from families who want to move into the area. A very cushy, particular niche has been carved out for me."

"How lovely for you," Aziraphale said, sincerely. Though, he was unsure of why the man was telling him any of this, or why he was there at all.

The man began to casually pick up books and inspect them. "As I said, I've seen you about. You own this beautiful bookstore… and I've seen you, quite often, I believe, with… another gentleman?"

"Oh. Indeed."

"A tall fellow with red hair," said the man. "Almost always wearing sunglasses, it seems."

"Yes, that's him."

"Is he your… you know?"

Aziraphale smiled, thinking of the changes in his life over the past several weeks. "I suppose he is, yes."

"Wonderful," said the man, with a warm look in his eye. "That's truly wonderful."

"Oh, thank you. It wasn't easily-earned, I'll tell you that," Aziraphale said, forgetting himself for just a moment. Then, he regained focus. "Sorry, why is it of any concern to you?"

"Oh, it's just that it means you'll probably have what I'm looking for," said the man. Next, he winked.

_Ugh, not another one._

"Sir, I'm not sure what you mean, but if you've come here to ask about my _backstock_ or some…"

"That's indeed why I've come," said the man. "This is a reputable book shop, and I'm a reputable man. I have a certain image to maintain for my wholesome clients… my being _here _surely won't bother them. And your being a man who… well, enjoys the company of other men, you're sure to have the specific genre of _book _that I seek."

Still clueless, Aziraphale said, "I'm sorry… _why_…"

He was interrupted. "You see, my company keep very close tabs on my internet activity, both at home and at the office. It's one of the prices I pay for earning… what I earn. But it means that I have to, very clandestinely, find my own entertainment. So, can you escort me?"

* * *

The man left disappointed, nonplussed, and annoyed at the bookseller, who, for whatever reason, would not show him the store's alternative stock. He threatened to tell everyone he knew that "Mr. Fell" was discriminatory, engaged in clandestine false advertising, and had no love for _the community._

"Forgive me, but what, exactly, is _clandestine false advertising_?" the angel asked, genuinely confused, just before the man exited in a huff.

Aziraphale, who was more nonplussed and annoyed than anyone, did not have a chance to tell the story later on that evening, because his companion (the one to whom the man in the blue suit had alluded) had shoved a gorgeous, aged, single-malt Scotch at him as soon as he let himself into the flat. From there, they'd got totally distracted, both by the Scotch, and by the prospect of trying a Thai-Tapas fusion restaurant. That was followed by guava gelato and an art-house film that made both of them weep, for different reasons.

But the following day, he was back in the stacks, feeling uneasy again, when yet another non-belonging sort wandered into the shop.

The man was about the same height as himself, but had a bit more girth. He wore a t-shirt with a computer joke on it (which Aziraphale did not understand), a pair of sweatpants, and sandals on his feet. His hair was unkept, the expression on his face was sort of blank, and he wore glasses that even Aziraphale could tell had been out of style since around 1989.

"Hi," the man said, rather flatly. His voice was loud enough that it caused a couple of other customers to look up from their reading.

"Hello," Aziraphale responded. "Is the gentleman having a good day?"

"Not really," the man responded, bluntly. "It's been pretty shit, to be honest."

"Oh really? I'm very sorry to hear that. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Are you Mr. Fell?"

"Erm, yes," Aziraphale answered.

The man smiled, and looked him over rather tactlessly. "Yeah, I could tell from the bowtie and your clothes and stuff."

"I'm afraid I don't follow," the angel said uncomfortably, glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention. Someone undoubtedly was, since the man made no attempt to be unassuming, or speak at a normal volume.

"Oh, they said you were a poof," the man said, again, bluntly.

Aziraphale had been called this many, many times, and reckoned it wasn't untrue. The word itself, offensive as it might seem to some, did not register with him at all anymore, and had never bothered him. What _did _bother him was…

"Who might _they _be, exactly?"

"You know, people. Around. Mostly on the internet. They say, go talk to that Fell bloke – he's a bit of a poofter, but he's got the goods."

"I'm sorry… people _on the internet_ are talking about me?"

The man shrugged. "Yeah. Mostly on Woogle Earth."

"Woogle Earth?" Aziraphale asked with huge eyes, delivering the words rather comically. "What in the name of… what is that?"

"Aw, you know, it's like Google Earth, lets you locate stuff. Except the 'w' is for 'wanking.'"

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon?"

"Yeah," the man said, chuckling and smirking dumbly. "Clever, innit?"

"How on God's…" Aziraphale began, then calmed. "How did my name get mentioned on a website like that?"

"You know. On account of the back room."

"I… wha… th…" he began. He took a breath. "People think there's… _woogle_ in my back room?"

"Whatever you wanna call it, yeah. Fist fodder. Toss tomes. Bishop-boxing books. They reckon you've got some bloody twisted Frigger-triggers back there, considering the right posh front you've given the shop."

"Posh _front_?" Aziraphale asked, outraged, and now totally aware that the other customers were intently staring now. "The internet think that my beautiful, rare and antique books shop is a front for some sort of smut-peddling outfit? How dare they! Well no wonder Father O'Rourke won't say hello to me on the street!"

"Yeah, mate, tough life."

"How the hell did this start?"

The man shrugged again. "The bloke who started the thread – kkatonasboi1981 – was in here one day a few weeks back, heard you talking about it with some gents in the other room. One of them was American, he says."

"Well, I can't have this!"

"Too late, word's out. So, where is it? As I said, having a pisser of a day – my friend Charlotte turned me down again, so I really fancy cracking one off this afternoon. Been getting tired of the same stuff, reckoned I'd give this place a try since they say it's such bent shit."

"Young man, have you _any_ sense, whatsoever, that there are people around you, and that your language is highly inflammatory?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

"Leave my shop at once! I carry nothing other than rare and antique books, none of which contain pornography, or _fist fodder_, or what-have-you! I'm incensed that you'd even think such a thing. Now out with you! Go!"

The man left mumbling to himself.

Aziraphale gritted his teeth, and growled with supreme annoyance, "Bloody Gabriel."

* * *

That evening, while a harried Aziraphale relaxed on the sofa with a glass of wine, listening to Mozart's 29th Symphony, a demon removed Woogle Earth from the internet, and from the memories of its users.

After he stopped laughing.

* * *

**A/N: So yeah - silly oneshot. Hope it made you smile. :-) Leave me a quick review and let me know. Thank you for reading!**


End file.
